


Fast Times at Brakebills

by orphan_account



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Crack, Gen, Introspection, POV Minor Character, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 08:58:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18362798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Clearly, he didn't know how to run a magic school without sufficient magic reserves.And then there was his worsening alcohol problem.





	Fast Times at Brakebills

Clearly, he didn't know how to run a magic school without sufficient magic reserves.

Life at Brakebills had been a shit-show ever since Jane Chatwin had imposed her dreadful idea of heroes on him and his beloved campus. Living through the tragedy of the Beast forty fucking times had been awful enough, but at least he had been able to count on two things in the past: magic and his school. Now he was left with disfigured versions of both.

What had happened to the First Years had been disastrous enough, but having to break the news to their parents, who had been compelled to believe their sons and daughters were living the high life at some sophisticated and mysterious institute? Well, that was way worse.

Of course, he didn't take it upon himself to deliver the news. He had henchmen—colleagues? employees? whatever you want to call them—to do the work he didn't want to do. He was still the dean, exerted some kind of power. Though it was nothing compared to the power the Library wielded over him and everyone else.

 

And then there was his worsening alcohol problem.

 

He didn't know if it was because he was getting older, or if the alcohol hit harder now, but coupled with the lack of magic it seemed the students were getting dumber. Sure, they had to possess some sort of logical thinking skills to pass the much complex entrance exam, but beyond that? He had no idea where the supposed intellectuals were.

Take Steve for example. Steve was a Knowledge student who knew about the limited amounts of ambiance magic, like the rest of the student body, and yet he had tried to turn himself into a Pegasus—Henry didn't know where he had found the spell, but then again he was a Knowledge student, and they were a voracious bunch—except magic had run out before he could complete the spell. So then poor, wretched Steve was stuck in a half-human, half-Pegasus body for half a week, until they had gathered enough magic to turn him back. The sight of him was grotesque, but not enough to prevent Henry from laughing at him. In his face.

(Nobody ever claimed Henry Fogg had a sense of decorum, least of all Henry Fogg himself.)

 

Every time somebody knocked on his door he drank.

Every time they left the room he drank.

Every time he pored over something the Library had sent him he drank; twice as much.

There was really nobody to rein him in, though Lipson had once tried to talk to him about his  _condition._

"I know what it's called, dear. Alcoholism. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a class to not teach," was all he had said before turning on his heel and walking away. 

Her concern was almost touching, except no one who lived and breathed Brakebills was in any position to dole out life lessons.

What they all needed was a good psychiatrist maybe. 

 

Out of all of his henchmen, Todd proved himself the most pliant one. He did everything Henry asked him to do, no questions asked. Soon enough he learned that not only could Todd type away at the speed of lightning, but also make a wicked omelette. And he knew how to do laundry. Henry couldn't remember the last time he did his own laundry.

All Todd essentially wanted in return was Henry's wisdom and guidance, two things he didn't really possess at this point. But Henry wasn't completely callous, so he did try to reach out a hand, even if that simply meant listening to Todd rattle on about his familial issues and chime in with a platitude or a snarky joke once in a while.

But hey, at least he was trying.

(But also, when the fuck did Todd become the closest thing he had to a friend at Brakebills, or anywhere else for that matter?

Fucking Todd.)

 

Sometimes he ruminated about the past timelines—about his past selves. The very first one, he remembered still having some sort of optimism. He was never an awfully positive person to begin with, but at least he hadn't stewed in his own bitterness back then like he did now.

Mayakovsky, like himself, was able to discern the timelines. The two of them weren't close, far from it, but once or twice, when Henry had been greatly plastered and off his rocker, he had called Mayakovksy to commiserate over the interminable nightmare that was their lives. How many more times would they have to welcome Quentin Coldwater and his friends into Brakebills before it was finally all over?

And now he had learned that Mayakovsky had some early-onset of dementia and didn't know right from wrong.

The time loops had stopped, but the nightmare was still ongoing. He wondered if it was ever going to end. He wondered if the universe was going to claim him next.

Either way, he wasn't going to go down without a fight. He was certain of that much.


End file.
